


Ten Minutes

by sebacielfantasies



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, But Fushimi Is Being His Grumpy Lil Self So, Construction Worker Yata, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Military, Office Worker Fushimi, Thats Not Gonna Be Easy, Yata Wants To Sit On The Bench with Fushimi For Lunch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 18:17:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7184921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebacielfantasies/pseuds/sebacielfantasies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten minutes before Fushimi Saruhiko's lunch break ends, the construction worker sits next to him on the bench, his red hair plastered to his forehead and a crumpled paper bag in one fist.</p><p>“Hey,” he says breathlessly, “Is it okay if I sit here?”</p><p>(Or, Saru figures out that anything can happen in ten minutes, falling in love included.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be just a fluffy 2k word fic, I swear. I have no idea how it turned into this monster.
> 
> There's mentions of the military and war in this—well, maybe a little more than just a mention—and I'm not entirely up to date with my current events, but I'm pretty sure Japan isn't involved in any wars right now? Not even sure they have an army for anything other than self-defense? So let's just say this is set a couple years after modern time, and they're in a war right now. (Maybe it could be like World War 3 or something, idk)
> 
> Also, Saruhiko's past is just about the same in this fic, and it's mentioned vaguely a few times, but nothing specific. Just to let you know.
> 
> And a million thanks to Not_So_Original for helping me so much with this! I couldn't have finished it without your help and ideas, so seriously, thank you.

Ten minutes before Fushimi Saruhiko's lunch break ends, the construction worker sits next to him on the bench, his red hair plastered to his forehead and a crumpled paper bag in one fist.

“Hey,” he says breathlessly. “Is it okay if I sit here?”  


The worker looks, if nothing else, exhausted. A thin sheen of sweat glosses his face (and it's the middle of March, what the fuck), and bits of gray cement mortar pepper his cheeks. But none of this is enough to dampen the man’s smile; his smile is almost as bright as the egg-yolk yellow hard hat he’s wearing. It’s an unrestrained, carefree look, one that belongs on the face of a child with his head in the clouds, not a working adult.  


Saruhiko's never liked head-in-the-clouds smiles like that.  


There’s a long, awkward pause before the worker decides to not wait for an answer. Instead he makes himself comfortable, pulls out an apple and bites into it.  


“What?” he asks, on the defensive when he feels Saruhiko’s gaze linger. “Why are you lookin’ at me like that?”  


“. . . it’s nothing,” mutters Saruhiko. He slides to the far edge of the bench.  


“Oi,” says the worker, “I’m not sick or anything, y’know! You don’t have to move so far away.” There’s a frown on his face, as if the distance personally offends him.  


“I’m fine here.” He’s much more comfortable by himself, which was exactly why he preferred to sit on this bench  _alone_ for lunch. For once, he’s glad his thirty minute lunch break is almost over.  


The worker scrunches his brows together, seemingly baffled. Then, shrugging, he sticks out a hand. “Well, whatever, that doesn’t matter anyway. The name’s Yata. What’s yours?”  


Saruhiko wrinkles his nose at the hand, sticky with apple juices, and stands up. He tucks his documents under one arm. “Only an idiot would give their name to a complete stranger.”  


“Huh?” The worker—Yata, he said his name was—scowls. “I’m just tryin’ to be friendly, what’s your proble—”  


“I’m late,” he says curtly, cutting smoothly across Yata. “Goodbye.”  


He leaves, and hopes the bench will be empty tomorrow.

  


**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, Yata pops up again, another bag crinkled in his fingertips and a sheepish smile on his face.

“Hey,” he says the same thing as yesterday, annoyingly enough, “Is it okay if I sit here?”  


Saruhiko scoffs, more prepared this time now that he can’t be surprised by that out of place smile. “No.”  


“Too bad, ‘cause I’m going to anyway,” the smirk is heard rather than seen in Yata’s voice, and it rubs on Saruhiko’s nerves like a cheese grater. Yata sits down, takes off his hard hat and sets it on his knees. His hair, mussed by the hat, sticks up in every direction.  


“Tsk,” Saruhiko gets on his feet, then, tosses his own emptied lunch into the trash can and clicks his tongue. He still has a couple minutes before he should head back, but he has no problem with going back to work early now that this idiot’s here.  


“Hey, wait, where are you going? I just got here!”  


“Exactly,” says Saruhiko.  


Scowling, Yata says, “C’mon, is it really that bad sitting by me?”  


“Is it really that hard for you to find somewhere else to sit?”  


“This is the only bench for blocks!” His voice rises easily, aggravation lining his words. He points across the street at the construction site that was set up a few weeks ago, a construction site Saruhiko’s had to painfully maneuver around every single day driving to work. “And I work  _right there,_ so why wouldn’t I eat here? It’s more convenient!”  


Annoyance flares in Saruhiko’s chest. “This bench is already taken, that’s why. I got here first.”  


“Believe it or not . . . uh,” Yata seems to be struggling for his name, but Saruhiko has no plans on giving it to him. “Well, whatever the hell your name is. But benches are meant for  _two_ people, not one. So I can sit here if I want.”  


Saruhiko can’t remember the last time someone got him this irritated, really. As annoying as his co-workers could be, this construction worker must have broken some kind of record.  


“Besides,” says Yata. “It’s not as if I’m ruining your whole precious break, right? I mean, when I got here, how much time did you have left?”  


He glares some more, enough to make Yata’s cocky smile droop a little, then grits out, “Ten minutes.”  


The smile’s quick to return, pulling at the corners of the other’s lips. His teeth are a pearly bright white, a stark contrast against the dirty state of his construction attire. “See? That’s hardly any time at all. So you only have to deal with me for the last ten minutes of your break, and I only have to deal with you for the first ten minutes of mine.”  


“You wouldn’t have to ‘deal with me’ if you would just leave me alone already. You’re annoying.”  


“But I want to,” says Yata. He stares down at his lap, voice lowering. “My friends—I mean, my co-workers, don’t seem to like me all that much, I think . . . So I really much rather be over here. And,” here his gaze shoots up, and hazel hues lock onto blue ones, “I guess it looked like you could use a friend.”  


Saruhiko’s mouth feels dry, and for a moment words don’t come. He swallows hard, once-twice-thrice.  


“I don’t need any friends.” His features twist back into irritation, lips fixed downwards. Over his shoulder, he finishes, “Especially not one as annoying as you.”  


He leaves, and he’d hope for the bench to be empty tomorrow if it didn’t feel so pointless.

**  
**

**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, when Yata finds him on the bench, Yata breaks out into the most irritating smirk the world’s ever seen.  


“Ha!” He braces his hands on his hips, looking down at Saruhiko’s slouched perch on the seat. “And here I was worrying you wouldn’t come back . . . You’re really still here?”  


The remains of Saruhiko’s lunch balance precariously on his lap as he leans back, eyes flicking up to gaze lazily at Yata. “Obviously. Did you honestly think I would leave after your stupid declaration? I don’t care if you don’t plan on leaving, I was here first.” Actually, he  _had_ planned on ditching the bench, but once he realized it was the only decent place to sit that wasn’t anywhere near his noisy co-workers, he decided he couldn’t let some idiot steal it away.  


“But,” he says, when Yata opens his mouth to speak, “if you think that’s an invitation to talk, it’s not.”  


His tone is snide, and he can tell it annoys Yata quite a bit, much to his satisfaction. The red haired man scowls, but sits without a word, surprisingly.  


Saruhiko still has a couple minutes before he should head back, so he slides a few documents out of the manila folder he always brings with him and pops the cap off his pen. Hearing the light scratching sound of pen against paper, Yata looks up from his rice container.  


“Ehh? What the hell are you doing? It’s your break, why are you doing work?”  


“Hasn’t anyone ever taught you that it’s impolite to talk with your mouth full?” says Saruhiko. “It’s gross.”  


Yata swallows audibly and, seemingly not affected by the other’s remarks, leans over his shoulder to look at the papers. “Where do you work, anyway? I mean, you look all official and stuff, with that ridiculous blue outfit—and how are you not dying of heat in that thing? It looks so stuffy.”  


“I thought I told you to shut up.” He should’ve known Yata wouldn’t listen for long.  


“Oh!” Excitedly, Yata points at the top of the paper, where their logo is stamped across in graceful, black lines. “This is Scepter 4’s logo, right? That government building? I’ve heard some friends of mine talk about it at this bar I go to, but that’s about it—whaddya guys do?”  


Seeing that accomplishing any work would be just about impossible with this idiot breathing over his shoulder, he sighs, tucks the papers back into their folder. “Mostly cubicle work.”  


“Oh, is that it?” Yata looks disappointed. “Well, that’s too bad. I thought maybe you guys were some secret police force or something. Or spies. That would be so cool, wouldn’t it! If you guys were spies?”  


He’s not sure how to reply to this, really, but luckily he doesn’t have to. One glance on his phone tells him it’s time to leave.  


“But anywaay,” says Yata, stopping Saruhiko in his tracks, “I sure am glad I got to see those papers.”  


Unable to help himself, he turns back around, eyebrows raised. “What is that supposed to mean.”  


“Your name was on those papers . . . ” A laugh tumbles off Yata’s lips, and a name rolls along with it, “Saruhiko.”

  


**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, Yata shows up, something that is slowly starting to become routine, and Saruhiko’s ready for him.

Saruhiko takes in his dirtied clothes and sweat matted hair, an appearance he now associates as normal. “You could use a bath,” he smirks, “Misaki.”  


“Oi, man up, a little dirt never hurt anyone—” The words sink in, and Yata’s—or rather, Misaki’s—eyes widen. “Wait, did you just—”  


“Did I just what, Misaki?”  


“You—” A small growl slips into Misaki’s voice, his fingers bent around his lunch bag. “How did you figure out my name?!”  


“I have my ways,” he answers vaguely. He chooses not to say how he was up late last night on his laptop, chooses not to say how he hacked into federal files and databases all for one stupid name.  


An angry red flushes over Misaki’s collarbone, crawls up his neck and reddens his cheeks. “Did you look me up or something, you bastard? You did, didn’t you!”  


“I couldn’t simply let you have the upper hand, Mi-sa-ki.” He stretches out the syllables on his tongue, watching the many shades of red darken on the shorter man’s skin. “You know my name. Isn’t it only fair that I know yours?”  


“I woulda told you eventually!” His eyes dart to the sidewalk. “At least, I probably would have. Maybe.”  


When Misaki meets his gaze again, the amber anger in his eyes has been replaced by a honey hued curiosity. “But you seriously looked me up? What else did you find?”  


Saruhiko snorts under his breath. “Do you really want to know?”  


“Well, yeah.” The blush that was slowly receding from his face comes back, warm and pink.  


“. . . this is stupid,” he says, but they both know he’ll give in anyway, so he just clicks his tongue and sighs. “. . . Your name is Yata Misaki.” The words are low in his throat, so low he’s not sure if Misaki can even hear him. It’d be better if he couldn’t. “You’re 22 years old, and you were born July 20, which makes your zodiac sign a cancer. You lived a normal life, for the most part; you have a sister, Megumi, and a brother, Minoru. Your father left when you were young, and your mother remarried. You attended school and got a high school diploma, though not without a lot of work because your grades were horrible. You rented an apartment four years ago, and you’ve been working as a construction worker for two years now, earning 1750.53 yen an hour. And you work odd jobs during the winter.”  


He draws in a mouthful of air, and wonders if he's ever spoken more this much in one period in his entire life. Out of the corner of his eyes, he glances at Misaki, who’s gaping at him like he’s grown two heads. There's also a strange look in his eyes, if for a second; almost as if he's expecting Saruhiko to say something else, something more. But it disappears a moment later and Saruhiko wonders if he imagined it.  


“Woah. That was . . .”  


As the reality of what Saruhiko just said begins to sink in, he feels his bones stiffen with embarrassment. “That wasn't,” he starts, stops, clicks his tongue. “It wasn't like I meant to—”  


“That was so  _ cool!” _  


Saruhiko’s attempt at words veer to a halt. He blinks, then blinks again, his entire vocabulary wiped out in an instant.  


“You're amazing, Saruhiko!” There's a contagious excitement in Misaki's eyes, one that lights up his eyes and spreads his smile. “Creepy, yeah, but amazing!”  


The smile is so contagious, thinks Saruhiko, that it infects his lips too, maybe.

  


**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, Misaki appears and flops down on the bench without a single word, letting the contents of his lunch bag collide with the sidewalk as he does.  


The loss of the worker’s usual chatter is a little alarming. “What's wrong with you?” asks Saruhiko.  


Misaki stretches out beside him, half-lying on the bench with his feet dangling off the edge. “Just tired, I guess. Today was totally exhausting . . .  And it’s not even over yet. I just wanna go to sleep, right here.”  


Misaki attempts to lay his head on Saruhiko’s lap, and they might be closer than the first time they met three months back (they might even be friends now, not that Saruhiko would ever admit it), but they're not _that_ close, so Saruhiko shoves him off the bench even further. He frowns, “If you didn’t want to do the work, you shouldn’t have gotten the job, idiot.”  


“Well it’s not like I had any choice! I’m too stupid to get some high tech geek job like you, and the bills aren’t gonna pay themselves . . .”  


“You  _are_ pretty stupid,” agrees Saruhiko, nodding.  


“Oi! Rude!” Misaki attempts to whack him on the head, only to have his wrist caught in Saruhiko’s slim fingers. He huffs angrily, “Let go so I can hit you properly, you bastard.”  


“Nope. You’ll have to make me, Mi-sa-ki.”  


After much wriggling and bickering, Misaki’s hand is finally released; he rubs the reddened skin with a sulk. Staring down at his hand, at the faint imprint of fingers on his skin, he then murmurs, “I do want to do something more, though. I don’t want to be some stupid construction worker forever, y’know?”  


“You can’t change occupations that easily, Misaki. Life doesn’t work that way.”  


“Why not?” Misaki looks frustrated, his mouth thinned. “Haven’t you ever wanted to do something more? More than just working in a cubicle all day? Don’t you want to do something . . . something amazing?”  


Saruhiko isn't expecting this. He blinks, but the look on Misaki’s face doesn’t change—he almost looks invincible, in that moment. As if he could take on the world with nothing but a smile.  


“Saruhiko,” he says. “I want—I want to be a soldier.”  


Again, Saruhiko blinks, stupefied, “. . . What?”  


“I want to be a soldier,” he repeats. “Ever since I was a kid I've wanted to. They risk their lives everyday out there, y’know? They’re like real life heroes. Meanwhile all I do is fill in potholes and try not to get my arm sliced off by all the fucking machinery. I mean, how uncool is that? Losing an arm because of some stupid construction accident?”  


“Misaki—”  


“But if I could lose an arm fighting instead, well, at least it would mean something then.”  


Most of the time, what Misaki says is so stupid that Saruhiko takes it with a grain of salt. And this—this is possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever said, and yet Saruhiko stares at him with wide eyes, words lost in his throat.  


Saruhiko’s never been one to chase after his dreams. He’d always thought they were long dead anyway, reduced to nothing but ash and smoke when he was young. He didn’t want to delve in something that was bound to fail in the end, bound to be crushed, bound to be burned.  


But the smile on Misaki’s face, the smile that holds all the dreams in the world, looks, for lack of other words, fairly fire retardant.  


Maybe, Saruhiko thinks as he heads back to work that day, just maybe dreaming big isn’t such a bad thing after all.

  


**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, someone sits beside him on the bench, and it’s not Misaki.

He looks up from the granola bar he’d been nibbling at to see a round, middle aged man seated to his right, his stringy hair gray at the tips and a newspaper spread across his thighs.  


Saruhiko frowns.  


The man pays him no attention. He folds open his newspaper, a clear sign that he’ll be staying awhile. His fingers fumble with the thick pages and Saruhiko sighs, tired of watching the pitiful sight. He turns back to his granola bar, which looks even less appetizing than before.  


He only lasts a minute before he finds himself looking at the man again, though, because there’s two minutes until Misaki is supposed to show up and somehow this feels wrong.  


Under his breath, he clicks his tongue, and the man seems to hear him despite being in what looks like his early eighties. He glances up from his newspaper, eyes squinted in Saruhiko's general direction. "Was that you, boy?"  


Caught off guard at being heard, Saruhiko doesn't reply, merely returns to his granola bar and shrugs.  


"I can take a hint," the old man sighs, and stands up, folding up his newspaper. "I saw the way you were glaring at me. Must be waiting for some girl, am I right?"  


"I—What?"  


"Teenagers," he says, as if that answers everything. He shakes his head. "They're more trouble than they're worth, if you ask me. Acting as if the world revolves around them . . . can't an old man even sit somewhere to read without one of them complaining."  


". . . I'm twenty two," he speaks up, finally, but the man's already gone, his grumbles lost in the wind as he hobbles off down the street. Saruhiko stares after him, at a loss.  


“Yo, Saru.” There’s a quick tap on his shoulder, and Misaki vaults over the bench from behind him. He falls into the seat with as much grace as an elephant, landing in a mess of limbs on the hard surface, “—Ow.”  


“Idiot,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice. “You’re late.”  


“I got chewed out by the boss, sorry.” Misaki rubs the back of his neck. “But you were probably happy about that, weren’t you? Asshole.”  


Saruhiko almost laughs.  _ If only you knew. _

_  
_

**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, Saruhiko glances out the window of the Scepter 4 office building, watching the pitter patter of raindrops smear the glass.

The rain had started early this morning, when he had walked to his car. At the time, it was a light, misty sprinkle. Now, it had evolved into a torrential downpour.  


He taps his pen on his desk, his uneaten lunch in front of him. A scatter of papers litter the desk that’s built inside his cubicle, his cubicle that feels oddly small, oddly suffocating. He’s never had much of a problem with it before, never cared about how plain it was or how it was hardly big enough to fit his knees under the desk. He’s never cared about trivial things like that.  


Today, though, it bothers him, and he wonders if maybe it’s because he rather be on a bench instead.  


“Fushimi-kun.” His superior’s mood isn’t dampened by the rain whatsoever; his blue uniform is crisply clean as always, his smile unfrayed. He enters Saruhiko’s field of vision and asks, “Is something the matter?”  


Saruhiko clicks his pen, once-twice-thrice. “No.”  


Munakata isn’t fooled. “I noticed you look more sullen than usual,” he says.  


“If you’re asking me that because you think it’s going to affect my work, it’s not.”  


“So you admit to be being in a worse mood than usual, then,” hums Munakata. He pauses for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face. “Does this have anything to do with that construction worker friend of yours?”  


Saruhiko masks his surprise with an irritated look. “How do you know about that?”  


“You’ve been eating your lunch alone on that bench for the past two years, until six months ago. Did you honestly think I would not notice?”  


A scowl crosses Saruhiko’s face, and he wonders if Munakata came here specifically to annoy him, because that’s what it feels like. “It doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “It’s just ten minutes.”  


“Ten minutes is plenty of time,” his smile has returned, laced with some kind of secret he has no plan on sharing. “Anything can happen in ten minutes, Fushimi-kun.”  


Something in Saruhiko stirs at the words, and he can’t help but wonder if something already happened in one of those many ten minutes, because an odd feeling warms his chest when he’s at that bench that he’s never felt before and he doesn’t know what to think about that.  


He glances out the window several times in the remainder of his lunch break and the rain doesn’t stop.

  


**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, Misaki shows up with a big grin on his face.  


“Well?” he says, upon reaching their bench. “Did you bring it, Saru? Did you bring it?”  


“Hello to you too,” grumbles Saruhiko, but he reaches over to grab the video game at his side anyway. “Here.”  


“Thanks!” Taking the video game case from his hands, Misaki looks at it with sparkling eyes. “I've been wanting to play this game for ages!”  


In response, Saruhiko merely gives a halfhearted shrug and returns to the book he was reading. Over the tops of the pages, his eyes catch Misaki's ever so often.  


“Hey, Saru.” Misaki has a hopeful expression on his face. “Do you wanna play this with me?”  


The book flutters closed with a snap of his wrist. “What.”  


“Like, at my place. After work?”  


Misaki’s made requests like this before. Requests to eat dinner together, or catch an early breakfast before they head their separate ways. Requests to hang out at Bar HOMRA, that bar Misaki likes so much. Requests to do really  _anything_ where they can spend more time together than the usual little less than ten minutes.  


Saruhiko isn't sure why he always says no.  


Today is no different. “No,” he says. “I have too much work to do.”  


“Aw, c’mon,” his voice is a picture of drawn out disappoint, blackening his normally cheery words, “you're always working, dumbass. Don't you ever do anything else?"  


“I spend ten minutes of my day being annoyed by you, is that not enough?”  


Misaki frowns. “Why do you always have to refuse? Don't you want to hang out with me, too?”  


It doesn't matter what Saruhiko wants to do, he thinks. All he knows is that when whatever-this-even-is (or rather, whoever-this-even-is) becomes too important to him, it'll break. It'll burn. Either by himself or someone else, it'll burn.  


_ Anything can happen in ten minutes, Fushimi-kun. _  


And yet, as he looks at the crushed expression on Misaki's face, he can't help but mumble, “Maybe some other time” and mean it, because sometimes the warm feeling in his chest overpowers everything else.  


Misaki still looks distressed. “But I don't  _have_ __ that much—” Catching himself, he leaves the sentence unfinished, mouth twisted into a grimace as he swallows the remaining words down his throat.  


Saruhiko doesn't like the desperation lacing Misaki's tone. When he speaks, his voice is edged sharper than a knife, aimed at the boy before him. “Don't have that much  _what,_  Misaki.”  


Misaki stares at him, chewing his lip. “Saruhiko,” he says. His eyes shift to the side, then dart up to meet his. “There's something I've been meaning to tell you—”  


Saruhiko’s ringtone goes off, and the tension breaks.  


“Shit—" He's tempted to ignore the phone buzzing in his pocket, but he knows better by now, so he reluctantly fumbles for the device and puts it to his ear. “What is it?”  


The voice on the phone belongs to one of his superiors, Awashima Seri, who tells him how late he is, how irresponsible he is, how he's going to lose his job if he doesn't get himself back into his cubicle in sixty seconds or less. Heaving a sigh, Saruhiko listens, occasionally inputting a “Yes ma’am,” and a “I know ma’am” here and there.  


When he tucks the phone back in his pocket, the remains of her scolding a dull ring in his ears, Misaki’s scowling at him.  


“It's not good to keep a lady waiting, y’know.”  


“You're the one who made me late.” Saruhiko clicks his tongue, “What is it you wanted to tell me?”  


“Oh, right, that. I’ll tell you later, okay?”  


Misaki smiles and waves at him when he walks away, but Saruhiko can't help but think that his smile doesn't look so carefree anymore.

  


**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, Misaki sits down, leans his head on Saruhiko’s shoulder, and closes his eyes. His hard hat is gone, and the tuffs of his red hair are almost brighter than the September autumn leaves crunched under their feet.

“Misaki?” asks Saruhiko, because he’s not sure what to say, not sure how to react. He ignores the heightening of his pulse and watches Misaki’s eyelashes flutter.  


“Mm,” he murmurs. “Hey, Saru.”  


“Misaki—”  


“Don’t.” There’s a flush of red on Misaki’s cheeks, and the familiar reaction is calming somehow. His hair tickles Saruhiko’s cheek as he shifts. “Just—Just lemme do this just this once, alright? Please.”  


Saruhiko blinks, once-twice-thrice, but doesn’t respond. He can’t, not with Misaki so warm against his side like this.  


“Just this once,” whispers Misaki, words slurred with sleep. He yawns loudly, “just once, before I go.”  


The words have barely left his lips when a snore escapes the corner of his mouth, and Misaki’s fast asleep. Meanwhile, Saruhiko is more awake than he's been in a long time, brought to life by the warmth on his shoulder and the words that thud in his ears.  


“Where are you going, Misaki?” he asks, and Misaki’s eyes flicker behind their lids but he doesn't answer, and they spend the remainder of the time in silence.

  


**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, Misaki shows up to the bench, and his normal smile is jittery around the edges. Saruhiko frowns when he sees it.

“I think,” he announces, once he sits down. “I think I’ll tell you today, Saru.”  


Saruhiko waits, and when Misaki doesn’t say anything else, he scowls, “Well?”  


“O-Oh, right.” Scratching his head, Misaki’s gaze dips to the ground and stays there. “You remember when I said I had something I meant to tell you, right?”  


“Yes, Misaki,” he drawls. “I'm surprised you remember, though, having so few working brain cells as you do.”  


“Oi, shaddup!” He shakes a fist at him, “You’re gettin’ me off track!”  


“Sorry, sorry.” He waves a hand, resists the urge to delay this moment further, this moment that already makes his gut sink with warning. “Carry on.”  


“R-Right. So. This is something I've meant to tell you for awhile now, and I really regret not telling you sooner, but—”  


“Get to the point.”  


“I know, geez! But okay, I'm just gonna come out with it real fast, like ripping off a bandage or—”  


“Misaki,” something in Saruhiko snaps, “spit it out!”  


“I love you!”  


Three words, and whatever it was that snapped in Saruhiko unravels completely.

Misaki looks shocked, his hand hovering over his mouth as if he can't believe what it just said. His mouth opens, closes, opens again.  


“Um,” his voice is high with embarrassment. “Shit, that wasn't what I was going to—that wasn't the important thing I meant to tell you—not that that  _wasn't_ important, just—”  


Saruhiko stands up.  


“Wait, Saruhiko!” A hand wraps around his wrist, and Misaki's words sound frustrated in his ears. “I'm sorry, don't go. Hear me out, I still need to—”  


“Shut up,” he hisses, pulling his wrist away. “Just shut up.”  


At his sides, Misaki’s fingers clench. “Is it really that fucking bad? Me liking you?”  


Sometimes, Saruhiko forgets how idiotic Misaki really is, but it's painfully obvious now. “Are you stupid?”  


Confused, Misaki's eyebrows scrunch together. “Huh?”  


“You're leaving to join the military.” The words are even worse out loud than they were in his head. “That’s what you were going to tell me, right?”  


Misaki inhales sharply, eyes going wide. “How did you know that?”  


“You told me you were leaving to go somewhere, and you never shut up about how much you wanted to be a stupid soldier. I put two and two together.”  


“O-Oh.” The light in Misaki's eyes dulls. There's a pregnant pause before he whispers, “You're right. I enlisted a year ago. Before we met.”  


In this moment, Saruhiko wants to hate Misaki. He wants to hate him for sitting beside him on the bench that first day in March, and the second day, and the third. He wants to hate him for becoming something like a friend to Saruhiko, fully aware that their time was limited.  


“When do you leave?”  


“. . . Tomorrow.”  


Most of all, he wants to hate Misaki for saying those three words to him, only to follow them with a goodbye.  


(But he can't hate him, he can't hate him because his smile is too bright and his laugh is too happy and maybe just maybe Saruhiko loves him too.)  


Saruhiko should've known this would never last. When it comes to him, nothing ever does.  


He leaves without another word, because what is there to say to someone who planned to leave you first anyway.

  


**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, he’s at his apartment, cocooned in blankets, stomach empty.

He'd called in “sick” earlier this morning. Awashima seemed highly suspicious of his fake coughs and hoarse voice, but she didn't press him about it, simply told him to make sure he could make up for all the paperwork he missed. That was one thing Saruhiko liked about his superior; she didn't pry.  


The low whine of the TV in the other room drives him insane, but he doesn't feel like finding the remote, nor does he feel like getting out of the comfort of his covers. To block out the noise, he bundles the blankets tighter around his ears.  


Or rather, maybe he does it in an attempt to drown out his thoughts instead, who knows.  


Even so, he still thinks about wide smiles, loud laughter, honey hues. Talking about anything and everything, swapping vegetables for a carton of milk.  


He still thinks about a confession, too, and he still thinks about a goodbye.  


He wonders if Misaki has left yet. If he hasn't, he wonders if Misaki is at the bench right now, for the last time.  


Saruhiko buries his head deeper under his pillows and tries to tell himself he doesn't care.

  


**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, he stands in front of the bench, lunch-less and stoic faced.

It's been a week since  _he_ left. Saruhiko chose not to eat his lunch here during those days, instead eating in the safety of his cubicle, and for good reason too, because looking at the bench now only brings a bad taste to his mouth.  


He doesn’t go back to the bench after that.

  


**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, Munakata hands him a beat-up letter, tells him “it's addressed to you, Fushimi-kun” and gives him a look that says he knows more than he's letting on. Saruhiko stares down at the envelope in his hands, addressed to him in an increasingly familiar scrawl, and feels his mouth go dry. He saw this writing once before, when a boy seized his papers during his lunch break some time ago and scribbled doodles of crows and fires and monkeys on them (they were worse than the drawings Saruhiko saw on Domyoji’s reports, but still he felt reluctant to erase them.)  


It makes sense that he got the letter during work, if he thinks about it. Since he never revealed any of his personal information to Misaki besides his name, Misaki only had his work office address to use, not his apartment’s.  


Still staring at the letter, he feels his stomach twist. By now, he knows where having attachments has gotten him. He knows that they never last, they get destroyed; plenty of people have proven that to him and he's smart enough to not test that theory. He knows that if he gets attached to some silly letters (not that even wants them, of course he doesn't), then eventually they'll stop coming, because that’s how it works, right.  


He clicks his tongue and throws the unopened letter in the wire trash basket under his desk.

  


**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, he receives his eighth letter, given to him once again by Munakata with a curious look in his eye.

“Someone seems quite eager to talk with you, don't they?”  


“. . . whatever,” mutters Saruhiko. He turns to toss the letter into the trash can under his desk, only to notice the other seven letters peeking out over the wire rim. He turns back toward his superior.  


“The janitor isn't emptying my trash can.”  


“Oh, is that so? I'll be sure to let him know for you then, Fushimi-kun.”  


Saruhiko doesn't like the smile playing at Munakata’s lips, but he says nothing, simply sits down and shoves the letters deeper down the bin where he can't see them.

  


**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, he receives his twentieth letter, and his trash can still hasn't been emptied.

He knows Munakata must have had a hand in it, and he glares at him with fervor, but Munakata just says, “You could always throw the trash away yourself, Fushimi-kun. You're perfectly capable of that, aren't you?”  


He's just too lazy, is all. And it's not like he has time to, what with the stacks of papers he's always filling out and all the phone calls he's constantly taking. So he leaves it alone, and he never looks at the letters.  


But soon, as time passes, the twentieth letter turns into the thirtieth letter, and the thirtieth letter turns into the fortieth. They bulge from his tiny trash can, and he has no choice but to throw them away.  


His co-workers ask him about the letters more than once (“Someone's got a clingy girlfriend!” Domyoji once laughed, and Saruhiko had to resist the urge to use his hidden, technically-not-allowed-on-the-premises pocket knife on him) and it's annoying enough to make him consider going back to eating lunch on the bench, if for some peace and quiet.  


But then he feels his heart beat a little faster, the disgusting taste returns in the back of his mouth, and he decides that no, anything would be better than that.  


Anything would be better than going back to that bench that he hates, that bench with memories he doesn’t want to remember.

  


**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, the letters stop coming.

He received the first letter two years ago, what feels like a distant memory to him now. He remembers how he threw it in the trash and all the ones after it, never opening a single one.  


He received the last letter three months ago. Overall, after the two years and three months of letters, that was the two hundred and sixty seventh letter.  


He grips this last letter in pale fingers, unopened, and remembers another distant memory, one that he can't seem to forget (though he’s tried to, he has), one with wide smiles and loud laughs and honey hues.  


He hopes for one more letter, just one more.

  


**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, he still hasn't gotten any more letters and his patience has run thin, so he rips open the two hundred and sixty seventh letter, because what the hell does he have to lose at this point.

The writing is sloppy, but Saruhiko squints through his glasses and, after much scrutinization, manages to make out something that looks vaguely like Japanese.  


_  
_

_ Hey Saru, _  


_ How are you? I hope you're not gettin pissed off by all these letters by now. But then again, you never write me any back, so I guess you've been annoyed by them ever since the first one. _  


_ I’m doin okay, in case you're wondering. Today my commander, Daikaku-san, said I was “not a bad soldier,” can you believe that? I mean, it took like 2 years for him to even speak to me, but I'm happy with it. Mm, on second thought, no, I won't be happy until someone calls me by Yatagarasu already—remember that nickname I mentioned a few letters back? Yeah, it hasn't exactly caught on yet, but it will, trust me. _  


_ But anyway, I think we're ambushing the enemy lines tomorrow. Time to show em who's boss again, yeah? My comrades look about ready to piss themselves just thinking about it, even though I've told them over and over there's nothin to worry about (they're just wimps or something). But yeah, so I'll be kinda busy. I'll write again in a couple days. _  


_ Yata _  


_ P.S. Can you believe this is the 266th letter? Or wait, is it the 267th? I can't remember . . . _  


  


There's one more sentence, furiously scratched out with pencil lead. Saruhiko strains his eyes to read it.

_  
_

~~_ P.S.S. I love you, stupid monkey. _ ~~

~~_  
_ ~~

**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, he calls in sick again. No one pries, and it's better that way.

(The only one who ever did pry, after all, is gone. Saruhiko clutches the last letter close to his chest and feels too numb to cry.)

  


**~**

  


Ten minutes before his lunch break ends, Saruhiko requests a temporary work leave.

“A leave of absence?” asks Munakata. He steeples his fingers, violet eyes questioning. “Might I ask why?”  


_ I’ll write again in a couple days. _  


Unconsciously, Saruhiko's fingers creep toward the letter in his pocket, the last letter. His chest tightens. “Am I obliged to tell you, sir?”  


Munakata’s gaze follows his fingers. “Normally, yes,” he says after a long moment. “But in these circumstances I think I'll just trust that you have good intentions for taking a temporary leave. After all, you've never given me a reason to doubt you before, Fushimi-kun.”  


“. . . right. Thank you.”  


Saruhiko is almost out the door when he hears Munakata murmur under his breath, “My, would you look at that.”  


Being halfway through the threshold, his vision is obscured by the door, but he's fairly certain Munakata is staring at something through his window. “What?”  


Munakata turns to him with a secretive smile, hands folded innocently behind his back. “It’s quite a nice day today, isn't it? Make sure to admire the scenery on your way out, Fushimi-kun.”  


Irritated at his superior’s mysterious attitude, he clicks his tongue. “Whatever you say, Captain.”  


When he gets outside, though, he doesn't “admire the scenery.” He hates looking at his surroundings in this area, because sometimes he can see various construction sites and he almost always sees the bench and he hates it.  


Today, however, is different. His eyes snag on the bench (they seem to do that a lot, annoyingly enough) and someone else is sitting on it.  


Except this person is not a stranger to Saruhiko, and he feels something inside him come to life.  


His construction worker attire is gone, to be replaced by a pristine, camouflaged uniform. His bright red hair is no longer matted under a hard hat; it's wild and untamed, strands flying every which way in the autumn breeze. A shiny gold medal sits proudly on his chest _(_ _ They're like real life heroes,  _ he once said, and Saruhiko thinks that he was right).  


But “real life heroes” aren't perfect. They make mistakes. They do stupid things for a greater cause, and sometimes things turn out badly.  


One of his camouflaged sleeves hangs empty.  


_ But if I could lose an arm fighting instead, well, at least it would mean something then. _  


“Hey,” Misaki says, and stands up. His smile shines more golden than any medal ever could. “Is it okay if I sit here?”  


Saruhiko doesn't know why he does it. Whether it's because he's too exhausted to think clearly or he because he's lost it completely or because this situation is just so damn funny, he doesn't know.  


He laughs.  


What starts out as faint laughing under his breath, as if amused by some joke, turns into hiccups of laughter that he can't control, and he can't breathe but he can't stop laughing either.  


“O-Oi, Saruhiko! What's wrong with you? What's so funny?”  


Hearing his voice makes it worse, somehow, hearing a voice he never thought he'd hear again makes it so much worse. He can't tell if he's laughing out of relief or anger or sadness or all of the above, but another laugh bubbles up his throat and he finds he doesn't care. The world feels wobbly under his feet and he hunches over, sides burning, and he still can't stop, still can't stop this twisted broken laughter.  


“Saruhiko! Snap the fuck out of it already!” Hands grip his shuddering shoulders (only one hand, he has to remind himself, and he laughs even harder) and shake him roughly. “Saruhiko!”  


He's almost laughed himself to tears by the time Misaki finally manages to shut him up. Misaki has moved close, too close—and then he destroys the distance between them completely, taking Saruhiko's face in his hands and kissing him to silence.  


There's lips on his; dry, hot, burning. There's fingers crushing into his shoulder blade, nails digging into his skin. There's someone else’s breath ghosting over his cheek, red hair brushing his nose.  


There's Yata Misaki in his arms, flesh and blood under Saruhiko’s fingertips, and Yata Misaki is alive alive alive.  


People are staring, but neither pull away (though Saruhiko can feel the burn of Misaki's blush a mile away.) If anything, they only pull closer together, and their surroundings smear into blurs of gray.  


“It's okay,” Misaki mumbles into his mouth. They lips come together again, hard enough to bruise, “it's okay.” He repeats it like a mantra, and Saruhiko doesn't believe it but Misaki does, and that just might be enough.  


When they finally break away, both are gasping for air. His limited energy having left him, Saruhiko feels boneless; it takes all his will just to not sink to the ground. Their gazes meet, and his heart won't stop its persistant thumping no matter how hard he tries.  


"Sorry," Misaki blurts out, abashed and pink-faced. "A-About the, um, well, that. I just didn't know how to get you to stop laughing like that." 

Saruhiko stares hard at him, feels his heart give another loud thump. “. . . You're not dead,” is all he can think of to say back, because his mind is a fog and it's the sole thought he can hold onto, right now.  


“Nope,” grins Misaki. “I came back all in one piece—” He pauses, glances toward his empty, armless sleeve and winces. “Well, for the most part.”  


“You idiot,” hisses Saruhiko. His fingers twitch into a fist to hide their shaking. “How could you be so reckless?”  


“How could you ignore my letters?” Misaki shoots back. “Every single one, Saruhiko! You know how long it took to write those things?!”  


Saruhiko shifts his gaze to his boots. “. . . I read the last one,” he finally says, under his breath, and his fingers brush over his pocket. “But,” he clicks his tongue, “if you knew I wasn't reading or responding, you should've stopped writing them.”  


Surprised, Misaki’s eyes widen, but then he shakes his head. “Nah, I couldn't do that either. Saru—you remember how I once told you I wanted to do something amazing?”  


Saruhiko shrugs, “Possibly.”  


“Okay, well, joining the military was going to be that amazing thing for me. I mean, I’d wanted to do it ever since I was a kid, y'know? But then I got there, and—” He pauses, swallowing, “and then I realized that I didn't really want to do those ‘amazing things’ anymore . . . At least, not without you.”  


Part of Saruhiko doesn't want to believe Misaki. If he does, if he attaches himself to these words and promises, chances are things will fall apart. A part of him whispers it’ll never last, not when it comes to someone like him.  


But another part of him wants to believe these words, wants to believe them so badly. He wants to remember Misaki’s _I love you_   and how it was never destroyed, almost as if it was unbreakable.  


“Misaki,” he murmurs, “your face is red.”  


“Hah?” The statement only further reddens Misaki's skin. “S-Shaddup, you damn monkey!”  


“But if it's amazing things you want,” he says, “well, I suppose I don't mind.”  


Instantly, the last of his fears are melted by the warmth of Misaki's smile. “Really?”  


“Yeah.”  


They sit down on the bench—something Saruhiko hasn't done in years—and despite the many changes time has brought, the bench is still cold and Misaki is still warm pressed again his side, and somehow it all feels right.  



End file.
